“Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine.
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